Gary McMahon - The Concrete Grove

“Morning, darling.” His voice was squeaky, quavering, like a tardy teenager’s late-breaking tones.

He was wearing a tight black leather bomber jacket and dark blue jeans. The clothes were so big that Lana assumed they must be custom-made, and were probably expensive to buy.

Lana took a single step back, into the narrow hallway. She didn’t mean to retreat; it was an instinctive reaction to the presence of the giant at her door, the monster who was even now following her inside. Only when he moved did she catch sight of the other two men behind him. They were not as big as the first, but they were big enough; tough enough.

“I hope we aren’t disturbing you, Miss Fraser.” The last one in closed the door behind him. The flat felt tiny, as if it were a doll’s house.

“I haven’t got the money.” She stood against the wall just inside the lounge, giving them the run of the place. She decided that subservience might be the safest course of action. “I told Monty yesterday, when he called me. I don’t have anything this week.”

The smallest man, the one closest to the door, stepped forward and gave her a fast back-handed slap across the face. Just before her head started buzzing, Lana noticed that he was wearing black leather gloves. She didn’t realise that her head had shot backwards and hit the wall until the pain started: a hot, beating place at the back of her skull. She felt tears rolling down her cheeks, and she was ashamed. The last thing she wanted to do was show these bastards how much they scared her.

“Just keep your fucking mouth shut until we tell you to speak, Miss Fraser.” It was the one who’d hit her: he was standing right in front of her, his scarred face only inches from her own. He ran a hand along her bare arm; the black leather felt wrong, like diseased skin.

She nodded, trying to smile.

“That’s better,” said Leather Glove Man. “It’s always easier when you people let us control the situation.”

“Get a fucking move on, Terry,” said the large one. He was examining the room, picking up books and putting them down again, running his fingers over her ornaments and framed photographs. “Ooh, nice.” He picked up a photo of Hailey in a swimsuit. “I like it when they get those little pointy titties. Like buds, they are.” He brought the photograph to his face and licked the glass frame.

Lana closed her eyes. The third man, who had moved further into the room, began to giggle. “Dirty bastard,” he said; his voice was nasal and unpleasant. “You’d shag anything, wouldn’t you?”

“If it bleeds it breeds,” said the big man. “And I do like it when they bleed…”

Lana opened her eyes. “Listen, I can give you some other stuff, just to buy some time. I have jewellery. Some of it’s still worth a lot of money — it’s from before, when we were better off.” She moved away from the wall but Terry pushed her back against the plaster, his leather-clad hand pressed against her chest, between her breasts. He looked right into her eyes and smiled.

“Come on,” she said, feigning weakness while all the time she wanted to tear out his throat with her teeth. “Be reasonable.”

“Reasonable,” said the big man. “And what’s reasonable about borrowing money and not paying it back? Monty’s a reasonable man; all he wants is what’s due to him. Nothing more, nothing less. He wants what he’s owed.” The gold tooth glinted. Leather Glove Man’s hand at her chest pushed harder, shoving her back against the plasterboard wall.

Lana was trapped. She knew it, and the men in her flat knew it. This was a game, a routine, and they were all aware of the rules. They would intimidate her for a little while, maybe even rough her up a bit more, and then they would take whatever they wanted in lieu of money owed.

Her right cheek was burning. The pain where she’d hit the wall with her head was a gentle throbbing, subsiding as she spoke to the men.

The big man stepped forward. His leather jacket creaked and his footsteps were loud and heavy, like sacks of wet earth being dropped onto the floor. “You know why we’re here.” He pushed Terry out of the way, bringing up his hand to stroke her cheek. “We’re going to take your stuff and go away. Then we’ll come back again, but for the money next time. This is a warning. We won’t hurt you, not today. But next time we’re going to have to break some fingers, or maybe even a pretty little hand. Not an arm or a leg — that’ll come after. It gets worse each time.” His meaty fingers slithered across her face, cupping her chin. He squeezed, forcing open her mouth. “We might even take something else… something that you won’t want to give freely. You have a very pretty mouth.” He blinked rapidly, as if there was something in his eyes. “So does your daughter.”

Lana was breathing heavily, as if her heart was approaching a cardiac arrest. It was panic, building in her chest and spreading outwards, like a fire. She fought to control her rage: lashing out would make things worse, and probably result in even greater violence.

Just a warning , she thought. That’s all .

“There’s a message, too. From Monty. You want to hear it?”

Lana nodded. He was still gripping her chin, keeping her jaws locked open. Her mouth was wet. Saliva filled the back of her throat, but she was unable to swallow.

“If you want to pay off the debt in another way, come and see him at the gym. He’s always willing to negotiate, and you’re a very attractive woman, Miss Fraser.” He paused, cocked his head to one side like a dog. “You don’t mind me saying that, do you?” He pushed his knee between her legs, forcing them apart.

“No,” she said, her breath coming in short, sharp stabs. “No, not at all.”

The big man pressed his broad kneecap into her groin. Her legs began to tremble.

“Thank you, Miss Fraser,” he said, pulling away from her. “Now we’ll just take a few things and be on our way.”

Lana felt her body crumple like a discarded suit. Her legs buckled and she slid down the wall, rubbing at her chin. Her face ached; her legs felt like partially disassembled plastic toys, unable to hold her upright. She sat on the floor and watched the three men as they moved around the flat, mentally cataloguing her belongings. When Terry, the one with the leather gloves and the quick hands, entered Hailey’s room she fought the urge to scream.

It took them less than thirty minutes to clear her out. They knew what they were doing and the type of goods they were looking for. They only took the stuff that was worth something in terms of resale value; everything else they either left behind or destroyed for fun. The last thing they carried down the stairs to load onto the back of their van was the television. Hailey would be distraught if she couldn’t watch her shows: lacking close friends or any kind of regular social life, she used her video games and the TV as her main sources of distraction.

But at least they’d left her books. Thugs like these were not renowned for their love of literature, and Hailey had a shelf filled with classics and science-fiction novels, books that had belonged to her father. Hardy, Wells, Vonnegut; the girl loved her books, and would have been distraught if she'd lost them.

The men said little more before they left: just a few words, a couple of vulgar promises that washed over her, not even touching her where it mattered. The big man grabbed his crotch in his massive hand and blew her a kiss on his way out the door. “Next time we’ll have some proper fun,” he said, before thrusting his hips like a piston. “Some proper fucking fun…”

Lana remained where she was on the floor, squatting like some primitive warrior woman delivering a baby in the dirt. She was no longer shaking. It was comfortable down there, near the dusty skirting board. She stayed there for a long time even after they left, thinking about her options, trying to work out what to do about the situation. Once again, she had failed her daughter. The choices she had made led only to despair.